words in blood, like flowers
by possibilist
Summary: She sniffles, stretches her back—which has been getting progressively more painful lately, a combination of winter and the fact that she's not had back surgery in seven years—and her lip starts to tremble. "It feels like you're leaving." quinn & rachel have a fight, & quinn gets hurt before rachel has the chance to apologize. reconciliation, angst, sweet stuff. faberry.


**words in blood, like flowers**

_i sleep. i dream. i make up things that i would never say. i say them very quietly.  
—_richard sicken

Quinn is about to start crying. About 99% of the time, you're patient and kind and loving, but today you're about to head out the door to a call-back, and sometimes, despite yourself, you cannot understand her mercurial days—though they are, now, few and far between.

"I'm sorry," she says, sitting down in the middle of the floor of your bedroom. You know this means her body isn't quite located correctly with the earth.

"Quinn, I have to go," you say.

She sniffles, stretches her back—which has been getting progressively more painful lately, which you think is a combination of winter and the fact that she's not had back surgery in seven years—and her lip starts to tremble. "It feels like you're _leaving_."

You try to not be frustrated, because she's your fiancé and you understand the implications of the darker parts of Quinn, but this is one of the most important auditions in your life so far, and nothing out of the ordinary had happened the past few days to trigger anything in Quinn, at least that you know of. It's probably a combination of adrenaline and exhaustion that makes you say, "Jesus fuck, Quinn, I'm going to marry you. I can't deal with your shit right now," before you turn on your heels and walk out of the front door without looking back.

It takes you until about two blocks later to feel absolutely mortified and terrible, like you want to throw up, but if you turn around now you'll miss your audition, which you know in the long run will make Quinn even more self-effacing because she'll think it's her fault. So you hold back your tears and run through the songs over again in your head, trying to concentrate on the measures rather than Quinn's shining green eyes rimmed with red, the messiness of her short blonde hair, the bend of her knees, the sharpness of her wrists. She proposed to you a few months ago, in the kitchen during breakfast, her grandmother's heirloom ring and a goofy, nervous smile. You said yes before she even got a word out, and you take some solace in this—some breath in this—as you near the theatre.

You put your phone on silent and try to clear your head of Quinn's ache, instead letting it fill your chest so you can let it out with each note. Which you do, which you've done for longer than you realized when you were younger. But now you know how Quinn's breath tastes. You know how the most tender, soft parts of her feel—the space between her fingers, her eyelids, her earlobes and the skin of her wrists. You know these better than your own. You have memorized the way Quinn stands when she's in front of people reading her poems versus the way she slouches against counters while she's waiting for her coffee order. You know the way her breath catches when she reads something she loves. You know the length of her eyelashes, the silkiness of her hair. Your favorite moments are watching her wake up, watching her just after you kiss her, while her eyes are still closed and her lips are barely parted, her thumb rubbing your jaw. It's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen, and it floors you sometimes that you get to see it everyday. Of all of the people you've kissed in your lifetime, Quinn is by far the most adept. For a while you thought it was because Quinn was just an _excellent _kisser, but you've learned over the years that she kisses like a poet: All reverence and holiness in mouths, in lungs. She kisses with her teeth sometimes, and she traces your gums with her tongue, and even when she's rough she's incredibly precise, even when you know she's drunk or caught up in your body. But most of the time Quinn is so gentle all of you aches with the grace of it all. When you were younger she told you once that she just wanted to kiss you like you were the most sacred thing in her life, and that's the way she does. When people ask about her, you want to tell them that she's stunning, that she's so smart and soft and brave. But instead you sing it, and you plan your apology at the same time: You'll pick up some cupcakes and saag paneer, her favorite 6 pack of IPAs, head back to your apartment and make love to her.

But when you've finished your audition and pick up your coat, reach in the pocket for your phone, you see three missed calls and five text messages from Santana. It's only been about an hour and a half since you left, and you want to start crying then and there, because there's no reason for that unless something had happened with Quinn. Instead of listening to any of the voicemails, you just call Santana back.

"Rachel," she says.

"What's wrong?" You sit down on a bench because your chest feels compressed of air.

"Quinn fell," Santana says. "In the kitchen, she tripped on the edge of a rug or something and fell and knocked herself out for a few minutes and then called me. Way deliriously, by the way."

It's not the worst thing that could've happened, because Quinn is still alive and safe. "Is she okay?"

"Well," Santana says, pauses for a few seconds that cause your stomach to drop.

"Santana."

"When I got there her back was hurting so much she was having trouble breathing consistently. So I took her to the hospital and we're there now and she's getting an MRI to see exactly what happened."

You start to cry a bit. "What hospital?"

"New York-Presbyterian," she says.

You stand and walk to the curb to hail a cab. "We'd just had a fight," you say, and you want to sob and punch something at the same time.

"Quinn's not an idiot, Rachel. She knows you love her, okay? And she's going to be just fine."

You climb into a cab and say, "I'll be there soon."

"Okay, I'll text you her room number once I know."

The cab ride is one of the longest of your life, although it's only a few blocks. You think that Quinn would probably write a poem about it, or at least muse during the middle of the night about how many times cab drivers take people to the dissolutions of their lives. To people they love who are crumbling. You tip your driver by $50 because you think Quinn would want you to, because he drives quickly and safely, because he gives you a sad smile as you climb out of the backseat.

You find your way to the room Santana texted you, not even worried about any wayward paparazzi or fans—you've won two Tony's by this point, so it's never entirely out of the question—but no one gives you a second glance.

When you get to the room, Santana is flipping through files on her lap, and Quinn is asleep in the bed, a few stitches pulling together a small cut above her left eyebrow, a bruise forming along her cheek. Santana looks up when she hears the click of your boots at the door, and she stands and gives you a hug then rubs Quinn's arm. You sit in the chair next to Santana's, and you take hold of Quinn's always-chilly hand. She opens her eyes groggily, but she smiles as best she can when she sees you. "Hey," she says.

"Hi," you tell her, and you still don't know how to fully deal with these situations, because she gets sick sometimes and you cannot imagine your life without her; she still gives you butterflies.

"'M kinda sleepy," she says, trying to tug your hand closer to her.

"You can go back to sleep," you say.

"Don't leave?" she asks.

"I promise I'll be here when you wake up," you say, then lean forward to kiss the stitches gently on her forehead.

Santana looks up from her work when Quinn closes her eyes. You wipe your tears quickly but she doesn't even move to make any comments about them. You know that Santana and Quinn are closer than anyone, that they've been best friends for longer than either of them probably realize. Santana is one of your closest friends too. "You know, moron over here ruined my date with Megan tonight," she says, just to make you laugh.

"You should have the date here. We can double," you say.

Santana smiles, rubs your shoulder. "I imagine Megan actually will come by tonight with stuff if you need it."

That instantly sobers you, because that means you'll be in the hospital for something serious for a while. "What'd they say?"

"Do you want to wait for a doctor to explain everything?"

You shake your head.

Santana nods. "Her back was getting shitty because one of her disks was compressed already, but when she tripped apparently the vertebrae they'd fixed after the accident compressed even more shit and basically she needs surgery tonight to fix it."

You take a deep breath. "But they'll be able to fix it, right?" You can't imagine how Quinn would begin to handle not being able to walk again.

"There's like, a 98% chance that everything will be totally fine. She'll need a bit of physical therapy in the long run, but she should be on her feet tomorrow after surgery tonight."

You nod, hold Santana's offered hand silently.

"Hey, she's a moron but she's also a tough son of a bitch."

When you look over Santana smiles at you, and you smile back.

A while later a doctor comes in and explains the specifics of the surgery, has you sign forms, gives you expected times for recovery. A nurse and anesthesiologist come in and prep Quinn for surgery, and before they wheel her away you kiss her softly. She's just barely still awake, but she manages to tell you, "I'll see you soon and I love you always."

Megan does stop by with Chinese food a few hours later. When you apologize for ruining their date, Santana shakes her head and Megan shrugs, runs a hand through her deep red hair. "Don't worry about it. We'll go on plenty more dates." You catch Santana's small, goofy smile at that before she composes herself, and Megan kisses her cheek gently, then takes the briefs from the case Santana has been poring over and sets them neatly in Santana's leather bag before taking her hand and leaning her head against her shoulder. Megan is a chef at one of your favorite restaurants uptown, and when you and Quinn dragged Santana for drinks one night, they'd hit it off. Megan is sweet and caring and seems good for Santana, who, surprisingly enough, opted for a job in the public sector despite having offers from various prestigious firms. Even now, despite the ache that seeing their simple, sweet touches gives you, you are very glad for them.

You end up eating a little and then going outside into the freezing November evening to call Judy and Frannie, even though Santana already had. You don't have too many updates to give them, and Frannie is headed down in the morning; Judy offers to take the train during the week if you have obligations and Quinn can't be home by herself quite yet.

Before you know it, someone is shaking you gently and you wake up a few hours later in the waiting room; Quinn's surgeon is smiling and she tells you that everything went well, that Quinn is in the PACU but should be back up in her room within the hour.

When you see Quinn next, she's attached to more machines than before, and she has a decently extensive amount of medications running into the IV in the top of her hand, an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose, but her eyes are drearily open. Satana and Megan wish her a quick goodnight and give you gentle hugs, and it's 3 am so they promise to be back first thing tomorrow visiting hours with coffee and bagels.

Quinn seems a bit disoriented, so you sit beside her on the bed gently and rub your thumb in comforting circles on the top of her knuckles, rest your other hand on the top of her head, scratch your fingers against her scalp every now and then.

"Does it hurt?" you ask.

"I don't think so," Quinn says, brows knit together in concentration. You smile a bit and kiss her forehead.

"Go to sleep, baby," you say, and she nods, leaning unabashedly into your hand.

You manage to get about two hours of sleep in the chair by her bed before she wakes you up by squeezing your hand. Her face is pale and tired and drawn. "I think I'm going to throw up," she says, and you nod and grab a pink bowl, place it gently in front of her face and help her sit up as quickly as you can without hurting her. This isn't uncommon for Quinn after surgery, and she throws up a little and you page a nurse while she lays back down, eyes shut in what you know is concentration to even out her breathing again.

"We're going to get you some anti-emetics and a bit higher dose of morphine, okay?" the nurse says, checking Quinn's vitals and then giving a soft smile. "Do you need another pillow or blanket?"

Quinn shakes her head, and she looks so miserable at that moment your heart aches. When the nurse leaves you kiss the top of her hand, just over the IV, and say, "I wish I could switch places with you right now."

She looks at you like you're the most insane person, shakes her head. "I'd never want that."

You worry your bottom lip. "I hate seeing you in pain."

"Well I hate seeing you in pain," she says, then cracks a smile. "Don't tautology me, Rach."

You laugh a little, squeeze her hand. "I'm sorry about yesterday, you know."

"I know," Quinn says. "I forgive you."

You go to say something else, to elaborate on your apology, but Quinn shakes her head.

"Babe," she says, so softly. "I know I'm a lot to handle and don't always have the best timing. You're wonderful and I can't wait to be out of this shit show room and marrying you."

Quinn's nurse Hanna knocks softly and then walks in with a smile at the two of your, your fingers gentle against the bruise on Quinn's cheek.

"Here's your meds, sweetheart," she says, situating them in Quinn's IV. "You'll probably get drowsy pretty quickly. But, Rachel, I'll pretend I don't see anything if you'd like to lay down in the bed for a few minutes."

Quinn grins and you say, "Thank you, Hanna."

Hanna turns with a wink and you climb into bed softly, rest your head against Quinn's chest. You feel her breathing start to deepen, her body grow less tense. "You're my favorite thing," she tells you. "Even when you have shitty moments."

You kiss her collarbone. "I'm giving you shit about falling in the kitchen when you're better."

She laughs lightly, breathily, sleepily, so much younger than 26 in those moments. "Hey Rachel?" she asks, playing with your engagement ring.

"What, Quinn?"

"I love the hell out of you."

It's one of her favorite expressions, you know. "I love the hell out of you too."


End file.
